Euripides (c. 485-406 BCE)
“If you present stupid people with a wisdom that is new, you will strike them as useless and idiotic. Then again, if you are considered superior to those who think they are subtly clever, you will be thought offensive in the city.”
King Rothari was ruler of the Lombards from 636 until his death in 652. Highlights from his career included the production of a law code and the continued Lombard policy of military expansion into the territory held by the Empire of Constantinople in Italy. Although the Lombard kingdom fared well under Rothari’s rule, he was apparently an unpopular king. This unpopularity and unrest, unfortunately, seemed to be inherited by King Rothari’s heir, Rodoald, who was assassinated around 653 and replaced by King Aripert (r. 653-661). When Aripert brought a new branch of the Lombard royal family to power, respect for the late King Rothari and his memory continued to dwindle. This descent of reverence for deceased King Rothari reached an inverted peak when his tomb was ultimately robbed. As told by the Lombard historian, Paul the Deacon (c. 720-799), “When he had been buried near the church of St. John the Baptist, after some time, a certain man inflamed by wicked cupidity opened his sepulcher at night and took away whatever he found among the ornaments of his body” (History of the Lombards, 4.47). The thief was successful in his scheme to steal treasures from the tomb, but the looted riches came at a price.
According to Lombard folklore and legend, the thief was haunted by visions of the tomb’s spiritual patron, St. John. From terrifying nightmares, to sightings in broad daylight, the ghost of St. John allegedly hounded the tomb-robber relentlessly as punishment for the sacrilegious plundering of the grave. Yet, in addition to the haunting, the spirit of St. John also was said to have banished the thief from ever again entering the sanctuary of the local church. St. John’s ghost was quite serious about this last rule, and the spirit supposedly stood guard at the door, prepared to physically assault the thief if he dared to attempt an entrance into the church. Paul the Deacon continued the peculiar legend:
“And so it occurred; for as often soever as he [the thief] wished to enter the sanctuary of St. John, straightaway his throat would be hit as if by a very powerful boxer and thus stricken, he suddenly fell down backwards. I speak the truth in Christ; he who saw this with his own eyes that very thing done related this to me” (History of the Lombards, 4.47).
Unfortunately, the identity of the haunted thief was not recorded. Nevertheless, the alleged experiences of the mysterious individual became a local legend. Whether it was from supernatural causes, psychological feelings of guilt, or some other reason, the enigmatic tomb-robber was conspicuously never able to bring himself to re-enter the church from which he had stolen.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (cropped Iron salt photograph negatives of boxers, by Eadweard J. Muybridge (c. 1830 – 1904), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the Getty Museum).
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This painting, by the Italian artist Guercino (aka Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, c. 1591–1666), was inspired by a scene from a poem called Gerusalemme liberata, written by the Italian poet, Torquato Tasso (c. 1544-1595). Tasso’s poem, which translates as The Liberation of Jerusalem, is a fictitious tale that is set in the times of the First Crusade (c. 1095/1096-1099). Despite the deceptive name of the poem, the Gerusalemme liberata more closely resembles ancient epic poems such as the Iliad and the Aeneid than an actual account of the First Crusade. Instead of Greeks besieging Troy, Tasso’s epic has Crusaders besieging Jerusalem. Whereas Greco-Roman gods helped or hindered the ancient heroes of old, Tasso’s newer characters instead meet angels, demons, wizards, witches, and a diverse host of other supernatural creatures. Nevertheless, this particular painted scene is quite mundane, and does not feature any such spiritual beings or monsters that can be found elsewhere in the poem. Instead, this painting focuses on the fictional character, Erminia, and an encounter she had with a community of shepherds.
As Torquato Tasso tells it, his character Erminia was a refugee who fled from the Crusader armies and found sanctuary in the then unconquered city of Jerusalem. While she was being driven from her home, only one crusader was allegedly kind to her. This crusader was Tancred (a historical figure spliced into this fictional plot), and his kindness caused Erminia to fall in love with him. During the siege of Jerusalem, the two were on opposite sides of the wall, but Erminia watched Tancred’s actions with interest. When she eventually saw that Tancred was injured during a duel, she was compelled to slip out of Jerusalem’s defenses to treat her beloved crusader’s wounds. To do this, she stole a suit of armor and a horse, and was able to bluff her way out of the gates. Nevertheless, Erminia was not able to reach Tancred at that time, for she was discovered by Crusader scouts and was chased away. It is this turn of events that led the armored Erminia to stumble upon a community of shepherds, who were understandably shocked and startled by her appearance. Torquato Tasso poetically described the scene:
“She sees an old man in the pleasant shade,
braiding (his flock close by) some basket thing
and listening while three striplings play and sing.
They, struck with terror at the sudden view
of unaccustomed arms, stare in surprise,
but then Erminia greets them kind and true,
and heartens them, uncovering her eyes
and golden hair. ‘Pursue,’ she says, ‘oh you,
beloved by Heaven, your fair enterprise.
These arms shall never urge a war to wrong
your wholesome labour or your lovely song.’”
(Torquato Tasso, Gerusalemme liberata, Canto 7, stanzas 6-7)
It is this passage that inspired the painting by Guercino. His painting re-creates many elements from the short quote. In the artwork, Erminia has removed her helmet, ‘uncovering her eyes and golden hair,’ to calm the family of herdsmen. Three young children, or ‘striplings,’ can be seen stinting on the opposite side of the canvas from Erminia, and the ‘old man,’ weaving a basket, stares up at the strange woman from his seat in front of the three boys.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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King Guntram of Burgundy (r. 561-593) was a man who knew loss all too well. At least three of his brothers had been murdered—Chramn was burned alive, while King Sigebert and King Chilperic had both been stabbed to death by assassins. Many of Guntram’s uncles and nephews had also been murdered, not to mention the other family members who met less-nefarious violent deaths in battle during the frequent Merovingian Dynasty civil wars of that era. Yet, for this depressed king, the most haunting losses in his life were the deaths of his sons.
King Guntram was known to have had children with at least three women. In his early days, before devoting himself to marriage, Guntram spent his evenings with a mistress named Veneranda, and they had a son named Gundobad. Yet, Veneranda was pushed aside when Guntram married his first wife, Marcatrude. Young Gundobad was sent away, too, so that the king could start building a new family of legitimate heirs, born in wedlock. Despite this, Guntram was still reportedly fond of his son and kept himself informed about Gundobad’s wellbeing. Marcatrude, in contrast, was said to have loathed the boy, regardless of how far away he was sent. When Queen Marcatrude soon had a child of her own with Guntram, her dislike of Gundobad intensified, for the boy posed a potential threat to the inheritance of her offspring. Therefore, when Gundobad suddenly and unexpectedly died of symptoms that suggested poisoning, everyone knew who the prime suspect was. Marcatrude’s only lifeline in the increasingly hostile court was her child, yet this unfortunate young soul died so young that a name was not recorded in history. After this second child’s death, King Guntrum divorced Marcatrude and made no effort to keep her healthy—she died soon after being dismissed. After these sad events, King Guntram married his last and favorite wife, Austrechild. They had two sons together, named Chlotar and Chlodomer. These boys, however, both died of dysentery in 577. Queen Austrechild, too, fell to the same disease in 580. In a grief-stricken rage, King Guntram executed the two doctors who had tried, but failed, to save the queen’s life. After three life partners, and three or four deceased sons, King Guntram decided not to remarry. The only known child of Guntram’s to have reached adulthood was a single daughter named Clotild, whose mother is unknown. She, unfortunately, was not deemed eligible to be Guntram’s heir, so the king nominated his nephew, King Childebert II of Austrasia (r. 575-595), as his successor.
This is all tragically ironic, for King Guntram of Burgundy (r. 561-593), even during his own lifetime, was rumored to be have been able to perform miracles, at least indirectly. These rumors were believed and recorded by clergymen such as Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594). In one particular tale Bishop Gregory preserved, it took only a few thread’s from Guntram’s cloak to heal a sick child:
“The faithful had a story which they used to tell about Guntram. There was a woman whose son was seriously ill of a quartan ague. As the boy lay tossing on his bed, his mother pushed her way through the vast crowds and came up behind the King. Without his noticing she cut a few threats from his cloak. She steeped these threads in water and then gave the infusion to her son to drink. The fever left him immediately and he became well again. I accept this as true, for I have often heard men possessed of a devil call upon Guntram’s name when the evil spirit was in them, and through his miraculous powers confess their crimes” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, IX. 21).
This miraculous power of King Guntram’s that Bishop Gregory had faith in unfortunately did not seem to work on the king’s own family. Gundobad was not spared from poison, nor was Marcatrude’s unnamed child saved from whatever affliction took the newborn’s life. Guntram could not heal his sons, Chlotar and Chlodomer of dysentery in 577, and had the same dismal luck with his wife, Austrechild, in 580. If King Guntram truly had the power to heal strangers, it must have been a torment to be unable to save the many ill-fated loved-ones in his own family.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Brice from BL Royal 20 D VI, f. 127, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the British Library.jpg).
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This painting, by the French artist Pierre Guérin (c. 1774-1833), was inspired by the death of a Carthaginian noblewoman named Sophonisba (or Sophoniba). She lived during the Second Punic War (c. 218-201 BCE), when both Rome and Carthage were seeking ties with Numidian warlords in hopes of gaining an advantage on the battlefield. Sophonisba, as happened too often in ancient and medieval history, found herself used as a bargaining chip, with her hand in marriage being offered as incentive for the Numidians to join Carthage’s side in the war. She was first betrothed to the powerful Numidian nobleman, Masinissa, but when he abandoned Carthage to align with the Romans in 206 BCE, the engagement was broken and Sophonisba was instead given in marriage to Masinissa’s greatest rival in Numidia—Syphax. The Roman historian, Livy (59 BCE-17 CE), wrote of the impactful marriage, stating, “[Sophonisba’s father] sent to Carthage for the young woman and hurried on the wedding. Congratulations were general, and, by way of strengthening the family tie by a national compact, a treaty of alliance between the people of Carthage and the king was declared and sworn…” (Livy, History of Rome, 29.23). Although Sophonisba had been used as leverage, she decided to embrace her role as Carthage’s representative in Syphax’s palace. She was quite effective at keeping her husband faithfully committed to the Carthaginian cause, even as the Romans were starting to gain momentum.
Unfortunately for Sophonisba, her family and her nation married her to the wrong Numidian lord. The coordination between the Roman general, Publius Cornelius Scipio (soon to be nicknamed ‘Africanus’), and Masinissa proved too much for the Carthaginians and Syphax to handle. By 203 BCE, Syphax and Sophonisba were defeated and captured by Masinissa at the city of Cirta. As the story goes, Masinissa took pity on his ex-fiancée and planned to marry her. Yet, Scipio and the Romans were concerned that if Masinissa married an outspoken and politically-active Carthaginian bride, then his loyalties might shift in the war. Therefore, the Romans reportedly demanded that Sophonisba be handed over into their custody. This was something that Masinissa would not do, but he also would not let the Carthaginian girl ruin his productive relationship with the Romans. Unfortunately for Sophonisba, this led to a grim third option—poison. The aforementioned historian, Livy, described what allegedly happened next:
“[Masinissa] called a trusty slave, in whose care was the poison which all kings keep against the changes of chance and fortune. He told the slave to mix the poison in a cup and carry it to Sophonisba, and tell her that Masinissa would gladly have kept the first promise which a husband owed to his wife, but that since those who had power robbed him of the freedom to do so, he was keeping his second promise, not to let her fall alive into the hands of the Romans…no less proudly she took the cup and calmly drained it with no sign of perturbation” (Livy, History of Rome, 30.15).
Such is the story, then, that inspired Pierre Guérin’s painting. Seen in her hand is likely the message she wished to be brought back to Masinissa as she died. According to Livy, the letter read, “‘I accept this bridal gift—a gift not unwelcome if my husband has been unable to offer a greater one to his wife…I should have died a better death if I had not married on the day of my funeral’” (Livy, History of Rome, 30.15). Sophinisba’s death did not sour Masinissa against the Romans, at all. Quite the opposite, he continued working with them for the rest of his life. With Roman support, Masinissa officially became the sole king of the Numidians in 201 BCE and his reign lasted until his death in 148 BCE.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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When King Aripert of the Lombards died in 661, the Lombard realm was divided between his two young sons, Godepert and Perctarit. Both sons held the rank of king, with Godepert holding court in Pavia, while Perctarit reigned in Milan. Although there was naturally some rivalry and jostling involved in such a co-king brotherly split, the real threat that Godepert and Perctarit faced was not each other, but their ambitious vassals. And in the kingdom of the Lombards there was no shortage of claimants. This was exacerbated by a curious feature of Lombard politics in the 6th and 7th centuries, in which a claimant could gain legitimacy by marrying, or descending from, a female member of the Lombard royal family. For example, King Aripert’s claim to the throne might have largely rested on his being a nephew of the prominent Lombard Queen, Theudelinda (d. 628). Similarly, a usurper could gain legitimacy by marrying a former queen, or by marrying a daughter of the monarchs. Unfortunately for Godepert and Perctarit, the latter scenario is exactly what happened in their case.
By 662, a plot was already underway to oust the brother co-kings and to replace them with one of the powerful Lombard dukes. The ringleader of the conspiracy was Duke Grimoald of Benevento, but the second most important figure in the plot was Duke Garipald of Turin, who played the role of the insider. According to Lombard sources, King Godepert tragically put misplaced trust in Garipald, keeping him close as an adviser and ambassador. Unfortunately, Garipald worked on Duke Grimoald’s behalf instead of the king’s. Due to Garipald’s misinformation and sabotage, King Godepert was outrageously said to have been uninformed that Duke Grimoald had raised an army and was marching on Pavia. As the story goes, when the rebelling duke from Benevento finally reached the king’s palace, King Godepert—none the wiser to the danger he was in—gave Grimoald a warm welcome, inviting him to lodge in the palace and partake in feasts and entertainment. Duke Grimoald accepted the lodgings, but the offers of friendship and comradery were rejected. Within days, King Godepert was stabbed to death and Grimoald seized the throne. After the assassination, newly crowned King Grimoald (r. 662-671) moved quickly to solidify his claim to the throne. He reassured courtiers who were concerned about the Lombard royal bloodline by awkwardly marrying one of King Aripert’s daughters, which would make the poor bride a sister of the freshly-slain Godepert. A notable figure not invited to the wedding was King Perctarit, the surviving brother of the bride, for he had to abandon Italy and go into exile to escape from Grimoald’s assassins.
Yet, Grimoald did not have a monopoly on assassins. In fact, at the beginning of King Grimoald’s reign, there was a man with killer intent who wished to avenge the death of King Godepert. This curious avenger, to say the least, was an unlikely man of action. The Lombard historian, Paul the Deacon (c. 720-799), introduced our latest character with the following brief and blunt sentence: “There was, indeed, in the household of Godepert a little dwarf who came from the city of Turin” (Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombards, 4.51).
The vengeful little fellow, unfortunately left unnamed, was hell-bent on meting out vigilante justice on the conspirators that took advantage of and killed King Godepert. Perhaps due to his familiarity with the Turin region, the stout assassin decided to first target Duke Garipald of Turin, who had been Godepert’s treacherous advisor and ambassador. It was a well-planned operation that the short avenger concocted while he stalked his prey. He learned Duke Garipald’s usual patterns and favorite haunts. In particular, he discovered certain locations where the duke was especially vulnerable. Ultimately, the stout vengeance-seeker decided his best bet was to set up an ambush in a local church in Turin. While scoping out the location, the assassin discovered that he could climb up, unseen, on the supporting pillars and beams of the church, allowing him to hang above or beside the usual passageways that the duke took through the holy building. Paul the Deacon (with a tone of approval) described what allegedly happened when the short assassin launched his plot:
“When he knew that duke Garipald, upon the very holy day of Easter would come to pray in the church of St. John, he got up on the sacred font of the baptistry and held himself by his left hand to a little column supporting the canopy where Garipald was about to pass, and having drawn his sword he held it under his clothing, and when Garipald had come near him to pass through, he lifted his garment and struck him on the neck with his sword with all his might and cut off his head upon the spot. Those who had come with Garipald fell upon him, killing him with wounds from many blows, but although he died, he still signally avenged the wrong done to his master Godepert” (Paul the Deacon, History of the Lombards, 4.51).
As the quote conveys, the assassin was killed in action after slaying Duke Garipald. King Grimoald, therefore, was spared from facing a similar plot from the resolute and innovative killer. Grimoald, meanwhile, kept up his shadowy pressure on his exiled brother-in-law, Perctarit, who had a knack for escaping from plots of intrigue. In a twist of fate, after King Grimoald’s own death in 671, Perctarit quickly returned to Italy and successfully seized the Lombard throne from Grimoald’s young successor, Garibald.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Man Preparing to Draw his Sword, by Jacques Callot (c. 1592–1635), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).
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This painting, created by the Italian artist Giovanni Battista Pittoni “the Younger” (c. 1687-1767), draws inspiration from the tragic myth of Polyxena, a Trojan princess captured by the Greeks at the end of the Trojan War. Polyxena, the myths and legends claim, was the daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba of Troy, but like other Trojan women who were taken captive after the war, fate seemed to be leading her down the path of enslavement. She, her mother, and the rest of the female prisoners were dragged to the fleet of Greek ships, which would carry them to strange a new existence across the Aegean. Yet, the weather was unfavorable for sailing, and the Greek fleet could not set out to sea. As told in Euripides’ tragedy, Hecuba (produced c. 424 BCE), and centuries later in the Metamorphoses of the Roman poet, Ovid (c. 43 BCE- 17 CE), the unyielding weather was said to have been caused by the ghost of Achilles, who was holding the Greeks hostage until they honored him with a sacrifice. Spectral Achilles’ demands were very specific—only the human sacrifice of Polyxena would appease him and end the winds. The Greeks agreed to their deceased friend’s terms and sent warriors to grab Polyxena, who was with the other captured women on the ships. Ovid skillfully narrated the scene:
“Torn from Hecuba’s arms—she was almost the only comfort
her mother had left—the ill-starred maiden displayed a courage
transcending a woman’s, as guards led her up to the hero’s mound
to be laid on his grave as a victim. Once in front of the fatal
alter, she realized the rite was intended for her,
but she never forgot who she was. When she saw Neoptólemus waiting,
sword in hand, with his eyes intently fixed on her own,
she said to him: ‘Take my noble blood and delay no longer.’”
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, 13.449-457)
It is this scene of Polyxena facing her unfortunate fate with bravery and poise that Giovanni Battista Pittoni re-creates in the painting above. According to both versions of the myth, Euripides’ earlier Greek edition and Ovid’s later Roman account, Polyxena greatly impressed the Greeks with her courage in the face of death, for she did not struggle and there was no need for her to be restrained. For Polyxena’s wardrobe, the ancient sources gave Giovanni Battista Pittoni a variety of different routes that he could have taken. Euripides, for instance, claimed that Polyxena “took her robe and tore it open from the shoulder to the waist, displaying a breast and bosom fair as a statue’s” (Euripides, Hecuba, approximately line 560). Ovid, however, imagined that Polyxena “preserved her maidenly virtue, arranging her garments to cover the parts men’s eyes should not see” (Metamorphoses, 13.479-480). Although it must have been tempting for the artist, Giovanni Battista Pittoni opted to forgo the nudity and instead painted Polyxena modestly robed.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Corellius Rufus was a 1st-century Roman whose tragic life was documented in the letters of his friend, Pliny the Younger (c. 61/62-113). As the story goes, Corellius was about thirty-two years of age when he began to develop a horrible condition in his feet. Although it was bothersome and distracting, Corellius could manage the pain of his illness through a regimen of exercise and general healthy living. Yet, as advancing age made it more difficult for Corellius to stay in good health, his condition began to exponentially worsen. As told by Pliny the Younger, Corellius was “cruelly tortured by unbelievable agony; for the disease was now no longer confined to his feet as before, but was now spreading through all his limbs” (Letters, 1.12). Pliny was not the only person that Corellius confided in—other pen pals, as well as Corellius’ wife, daughter, and grandchildren, all knew about the excruciating pain that the ill man was experiencing. The above group of people all worried over Corellius Rufus, and their worries especially grew during the reign of Emperor Domitian, who began his reign in the year 81. It was at that time, according to Pliny, that Corellius unfortunately began to consider self-harm.
While Corellius’ condition deteriorated during the reign of Domitian, the ill man evidently set up for himself a goal to outlive the emperor. Domitian, born in the year 51, was still a young man when he became emperor and, therefore, Corellius would hopefully need to live for many more years in order to outlive the youthful ruler. Yet, Rome was a dangerous place for unpopular leaders. Domitian ultimately was assassinated in the year 96, when he was only forty-five years old. With the death of the emperor, so too died Corellius Rufus’ motivation to keep living. The man’s family noticed his change, and they urgently began writing letters to Corellius’ respected friends, including Pliny the Younger, asking for these people to come and convince the pained man to keep on living. Pliny and several others reportedly set off immediately when they received the family’s plea for help, but travel proved too slow and Corellius, in his newfound determination to die, acted too quickly and adamantly to be stopped. Corellius Rufus starved himself to death after refusing to eat for over four days. He was sixty-seven years old.
Counselors, professional help, and other suicide prevention resources can be found at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
Written by C. Keith Hansley.
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This bawdy painting, by the Dutch artist Nicolaas Verkolje (c. 1673-1476), was inspired by the ancient legends and myth of a man named Gyges, who reportedly lived in the 7th century BCE. Accounts differ about Gyges’ occupation, with some claiming that he was a shepherd, while others insist he was a military officer or a palace guardsman. Whatever the case, Gyges ultimately found himself embroiled in an awkward drama with his liege, King Candaules of Lydia.
Perhaps the most popular account of the legend about Gyges was the one preserved by the philosopher, Plato (c. 427-347 BCE). According to his account, Gyges or one of his kinsmen found a magical, invisibility-granting ring while exploring the wilderness. In his Republic, Plato wrote, “he eventually found that turning the bezel inwards made him invisible and turning it outwards made him visible. As soon as he realized this, he arranged to be one of the delegates to the king; once he was inside the palace, he seduced the king’s wife and with her help assaulted and killed the king, and so took possession of the throne” (Plato, Republic, 360a-b). Yet, as the figure representing Gyges in the painting in not wearing a noticeable ring, perhaps the artist opted for one of the other variants of the story. The historian, Herodotus (c. 490-425/420 BCE), for instance, claimed that a ringless Gyges was intentionally invited by King Candaules to take an intimate glimpse at the queen, who was unaware of her husband’s mischief. Herodotus narrated how the conversation between Candaules and Gyges might have unfolded, and then he went on to describe the ploy in action:
“‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ he [Candaules] said, ‘either from me or my wife. I am not laying a trap for you; and as for her, I promise she will do you no harm. I’ll manage so that she doesn’t even know that you have seen her. Look: I will hide you behind the open door of our bedroom. My wife will follow me in to bed. Near the door there’s a chair—she will put her clothes on it as she takes them off, one by one. You will be able to watch her with perfect ease… Gyges, since he was unable to avoid it, consented, and when bedtime came Candaules brought him to the room. Presently the queen arrived, and Gyges watched her walk in and put her clothes on the chair. Then, just as she had turned her back and was going to bed, he slipped softly out of the room. But the queen saw him” (Herodotus, The Histories, 1.9).
In this magicless second version, the queen was furious with her husband for exposing her to the stranger. In her fury, she confronted Gyges and told him that only one living man could see her robeless and therefore he needed to make a deadly choice—either take his own life, or kill King Candaules. Gyges took the second option. After killing the king and marrying the widowed queen, Gyges became the new ruler of Lydia. Whether or not this is how he really ascended to the throne, Gyges reportedly took power about the year 680 BCE, and ruled until his death around 652 BCE. He founded the Mermnad Dynasty of Lydian kings.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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